The Gilded Cage
1633 Words
The penthouse door shut with a heavy, digital thud. Maren turned around. There was no handle on the inside. Just a smooth slab of dark wood and a glowing keypad. Her pulse jumped in her thumb. She was in.
"Your room is down the hall," Alaric said.
He didn't look back. He walked toward the kitchen. He moved like he owned the air in the room. Maren followed the hall. The carpet swallowed the sound of her steps. It felt like walking through a dream that was about to turn into a nightmare.
She pushed open the bedroom door. She stopped. The air hit her face. It smelled of jasmine and wet earth. It was her grandmother’s garden. It was a smell from a house that had burned down ten years ago. A smell she had never mentioned to him.
Maren felt sick. She felt like Alaric had reached into her brain and peeled back her skin.
On the bed lay a dress of black silk. Next to it sat a pair of heavy metal shears. A small card rested on the pillow. Wear the silk, or cut it. Either way, dinner is at eight.
Maren picked up the shears. They were cold. They were sharp. She looked at the dress. It was beautiful. It was a bribe. She wanted to shred it. She wanted to hear the silk scream.
But her hands shook. If she cut the dress, what would he do? If she wore it, who was she becoming? She sat on the edge of the bed. She sat there for a long time. The silence in the room was too loud.
She looked at the ceiling vent. Deep inside the dark metal, a tiny red light blinked. It was a small, unblinking eye. He was watching her decide. He was watching her hesitate.
Maren stood up. She took off her old, tired clothes. She put on the silk. It felt like ice against her skin.
Dinner was served at a table so long it felt like a bridge. Alaric sat at one end. Maren sat at the other. The space between them was filled with shadows.
Alaric poured wine into two glasses. The liquid was the color of a bruise. He picked up Maren’s glass. He took a slow sip. He set it back down.
"It’s safe," he said.
Maren didn't touch the wine. She picked up her fork. The silver clinked against the plate. The sound was like a gunshot in the quiet room.
"How is your mother, Maren?" Alaric asked.
Maren froze. Her heart hammered against her ribs. "She’s fine. Why?"
"She liked the yellow roses I sent to her nursing home today," he said. He cut a piece of steak. He didn't look up. "She seemed lonely."
Maren felt the blood leave her head. She had moved her mother three times. She had used a fake name for the billing. She had done everything to hide her.
"You stayed away from her," Maren whispered.
"I take care of what is mine," Alaric said. He looked at his watch. "Your heart rate is 110, Maren. You should breathe. The stress is bad for your health."
He knew. He was reading her body like a book. He had sensors in the chair. He had sensors in her life.
Alaric’s phone buzzed on the table. He looked at the screen. He stood up.
"I have to take this. Stay here."
He walked away. He left his other phone on the table.
Maren stared at it. It was right there. Five feet away. If she could get it, she could call for help. She could find out how he found her mother. She could run.
She looked at the door. Then back at the phone. Her chair scraped the floor. She lunged. Her fingers swiped the glass. She grabbed it.
The screen lit up. There was no signal. No bars. No way to call out.
The wallpaper of the phone was a photo. It was Maren. She was sleeping in her old apartment. The photo was taken from a corner of her bedroom. A corner where no one should have been.
"Did you find what you were looking for?"
Alaric was standing in the doorway of the library. He wasn't angry. He looked bored.
Maren dropped the phone. It hit the rug with a soft thud. "You were in my room. While I was sleeping."
"I am always there, Maren."
He turned and walked into the library. Maren followed him. She couldn't stop herself. She needed to see. She needed to know how deep the hole went.
Alaric walked to a bookshelf. He didn't pull a book. He pressed his thumb against a dark patch of wood.
A section of the wall groaned. A door of seamless steel slid open. It led into a room with no windows.
Alaric stepped inside. He didn't close the door yet.
Maren stood at the threshold. She looked in. Her breath caught in her throat.
The room was filled with monitors. Dozens of them. They glowed with a cold, blue light. Every screen showed a different angle of the penthouse. One was the kitchen. One was her bedroom.
She saw herself on one of the screens. She was standing in the doorway of the library, wearing the black silk dress. There was a two-second delay. She watched her own ghost move on the screen. It made her feel like she was already dead.
But the biggest screen was in the center. It showed a map of the city. On the map, a single red dot was moving.
Maren looked closer. The dot was labeled with her mother’s name. It was moving slowly, traveling down a street Maren recognized near the clinic.
Next to the map was a countdown clock. It was ticking down from sixty seconds. The numbers were large and white against the black background. They felt heavy.
"What is that?" Maren asked. Her voice broke.
Alaric looked at the clock. Then he looked at her.
"That is the time you have left to decide," he said.
"Decide what?"
"Decide if you want to be a guest, or if you want to be a ghost," Alaric said. He walked to the console. He didn't touch anything. He just watched the numbers.
45.
"If that clock hits zero," Alaric continued, "the funding for the facility stops. The doctors are told the patient has been moved. The power to her specific wing is rerouted. It is a very efficient system, Maren. It doesn't require me to do anything. It only requires you to do nothing."
Maren felt the room spinning. She looked at the red dot. It was her mother. Her mother, who breathed through a machine. Her mother, who needed the yellow roses and the quiet room.
30.
"You can't do this," Maren said. She stepped toward him. Her hands were curled into fists. "There are laws. You can't just turn off a person."
"I'm not turning her off," Alaric said. He checked his own watch. "I am simply withdrawing my private support. The state will take over. Eventually. But by the time they find a bed in a public ward, she will be gone. The transport alone would kill her."
20.
Maren looked at the screens. She saw her bedroom again. She saw the metal shears lying on the bed. She realized they weren't a tool for the dress. They were a test. He wanted to see if she was a creature of destruction or a creature of survival.
15.
"What do I have to do?" Maren screamed.
"The keypad on the desk," Alaric pointed. "Enter your birthdate. It’s a digital signature. It confirms you are here of your own free will. It links your biometric data to the house."
Maren looked at the keypad. It was glowing with a soft, inviting light.
10.
She looked at Alaric. He looked like a statue. He wasn't breathing hard. He wasn't sweating. He was just waiting for the data to be entered.
5.
Maren’s fingers hovered over the keypad. She thought about the smell of jasmine. She thought about the unblinking red eye in the vent.
2.
1.
Maren didn't move. Her body felt like stone. She couldn't give him the signature. She couldn't let him own the inside of her head.
The clock hit zero.
A sharp, electronic chime echoed through the room.
The red dot on the map turned black.
Maren felt her heart stop. She stared at the screen. The black dot stayed perfectly still. It didn't move another inch. It looked like a hole in the world.
"It’s done," Alaric said.
He didn't sound angry. He didn't sound happy. He sounded like a man reading a weather report.
He turned away from the monitors and walked toward the door.
"Where are you going?" Maren yelled.
"To finish my dinner," Alaric said. "The signal is gone, Maren. You chose the shears."
The steel door began to slide shut.
Maren stood in the blue light, staring at the black dot. It was the only thing left on the map. It was the only thing left of her life.
She looked at the black watch on her own wrist. It was glowing. It was counting.
She was in the cage. And the lights had just gone out.
- Writer
